


Where I Was Standing

by MrsRen



Category: Original Work
Genre: firsthand account of a traumatic event, tw: gun violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28507596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRen/pseuds/MrsRen
Summary: This is NOT a fanfiction. There are notes inside, but this is a very personal thing where I suffered a trauma last year. I'm trying to let go, and writing it down was the best outlet for me. Please mind the notes and trigger warnings if you choose to read.
Comments: 47
Kudos: 59





	Where I Was Standing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a way to create an outlet for myself. It’s not fanfiction. It’s not even original fiction. It’s written as a letter and that’s why it’s a first person point of view. It’s a letter, from me to him. Six months ago, I was threatened at work, and believed I was going to die. It’s obviously a very traumatic experience, and I thought that I was fine now. It came up last night though, and I’ve had to confront the fact that I’m not processing the trauma, or the fallout. It's a very personal piece, and I hope you'll understand that I am not open to concrit on this. On literally anything else, but not this. 
> 
> Please don’t read this if you are sensitive to threats of graphic violence. Trigger warning: threat of a gun, fear of dying. It might be an uncomfortable read because it is a first hand account of that day, and you can click back. It won’t hurt my feelings. Really. I just need someone in the world to read this and know that it happened, because I’ve spent so much time trying to pretend it didn’t. 
> 
> Details have been removed because while some of you may know me personally, I really just want to keep some sense of anonymity. 

  
  


Six months separate me from June, from the way you stood across from me with your mouth twisting into something I was not able to understand. I remember your voice when it rose, the way you leaned in, and the way I leaned away. Maybe it’s because I knew there was something wrong, instincts sparking up in an effort to tell me to get away. 

Out of stubbornness, I know that I didn’t. I know that I have always said no one would treat me the way you did while I was at work because I don’t deserve it. I didn’t and I  _ don’t  _ deserve to be a doormat or the way you take out your anger. I remember exactly what you wanted, how you demanded that I break a company policy that’s out of my control. 

I see you in people that I pass in public, in tones that make me stiffen, in the too quick motions of a customer, or in the wind that rips the door open. Truthfully, I don’t believe you know who I am. You must have been out of your mind. Under the influence of something because I’m certain that you have no idea who I am, that you couldn’t pick me out from a crowd. I don’t know if I wish that was the case. 

How can I wish I could forget your face when I would spend too much time wondering if you’re the person that’s passed me on the street? And yet it’s no comfort to know your face. It’s been months, but there is no amount of time that is going to make me forget the way your breath feels when it rolls across my face because you’re too close to me. 

Maybe there is no way to process something like this. Maybe it’s something that I carry with me from here on out. Will I forget what it’s like to hear my own voice in my head while I pray to a God I don’t believe it? I don’t think I can. If there is anything I wish, it’s that you could feel an ounce of the trauma you’ve forced upon me since that day. But I can’t make that happen. This is what I have though, the words that used to be an escape for me, and all I can do is reach out to take them back. 

I know more than a few things. 

I know that one day I went to work in the hopes that it would be an easy sales day. I know that I was training a new girl. Shortly before my boss left for the day, there’s a phone call from an irate customer and I know that it’s going to go sideways before you ever walk through the door. I can’t say what you wanted because above all, I want to be anonymous. Can you imagine that?  _ I’m the one ashamed, as if I’ve done anything wrong.  _ I don’t want anyone who ever reads this to pick me out, to know where I work. 

I don’t even know why. I’d like to publicly humiliate you, but I don’t think you have the decency to manage that. 

It goes like this. There are things in life that I will carry with me. I like to believe that I hold tight to memories of those I love, but now I know that I hold onto the ugliest experiences just as much. If I hold them close, I won’t forget them. I’ll recognize it the next time before it swallows me up between one second and the next. 

On January 1st, I didn’t think of you. It’s been months now since you’ve lived in every hour of every day, the sharp recollection of just what you represent to me. You creep up without warning, and then I remember exactly what it feels like. 

Cold fear inching down my spine, the feel of my heart beating faster than it should, the pounding between my ears. Each time, I think that it’s not possible to recreate that moment, but that’s a lie. It’s happened dozens of times now. It’s been long enough that it’s numb, that I push you out of my mind because  _ you don’t belong there _ , but then it’s there again just as sharp as the first time. 

It’s teetering on the edge of panic, and looking down, but not knowing where to land. I hate not knowing what comes next. It’s like I’m there and you’re an inch away from me, so close that your breath is against my face while you’re yelling, and I’m about to break apart. 

I nearly told someone tonight that I wasn’t ready to split open again, and then I remembered all at once that I will never be ready to take that plunge. It’s not something I get to decide so easily. I think I have to push myself, so I have gotten this far without saying the truth because even now I am avoiding what this is. 

Trauma. It’s called trauma and I don’t know how I am meant to process it. 

The day of, I could have recited the entire altercation word for word. I know that I did. I know that I told the police, my boss, my boss’s boss. I know that I called my grandpa, and wondered if he could hear the shakiness in my voice. My mom did because she’s my mom, and she’ll always know. 

I remember calling my boyfriend after believing I would never hear his voice again. I remember every second of what came after, but it’s what came before that’s trickier. 

Not all of your words come back to me anymore. I have that one bit of defense in knowing that my trauma has caused me to forget the worst parts of that day. But it’s like missing a piece of myself, a part that you’ve taken away from me because now I can’t remember, and I can’t control it. It’s something you took from me that I can’t get back, but you left the hollowed out feeling of fear. 

If I close my eyes, your voice is there. Yelling, another voice following suit while you harass me. Six months ago, I didn’t back down. Determined to be taken seriously, I snapped back without knowing the danger it put me in. My voice rose just as loud as yours. There’s a co-worker between us, defending me while I’m trying to defend her and we’re both so desperate to protect the other from a harsh voice that neither of us recognizes the real threat standing right  _ there _ . Inches away from me.

Because you are not the run of the mill angry customer. You’re not going to leave peacefully. It’s so much worse, and one of the things that bothers me most is looking back on how I just didn’t know. 

After, I know my boyfriend told me how dangerous it was to rear back with all I had and tell you to get the  _ fuck _ out. It made me so angry to think that it was my fault for triggering you, but then that wasn’t what he meant. This is the world. I can’t control what someone else may do to me, no matter how hard I try, and it’s something I will never be able to move on from. I know that. He wanted to protect me, even if that meant my defense slipping. 

You’ll never know how badly I wished he’d been there every single second you scared me. I wished he could have intervened because I promise there would not have been a bit of a problem left. 

But I’ve wondered if you would have stopped if I hadn’t given as much as you did. Then I hear myself blaming me.  _ If I had been nicer… If I hadn’t asked him to leave…. Maybe I could have— _

**It’s your fault, and I hate you for it. I hate the safety you’ve ripped out from under me without a single thought of remorse.**

The constant stream of your voice goes on for nearly twenty minutes, laced with aggressive  _ ma’am’s  _ while you feign politeness. A headache forms at the base of my skull, at first a slow ache that is already too much by the time I notice it. You don’t leave when you’re asked, but that’s not a surprise either. 

It’s really no surprise when I start to cry. For the tiniest second, I think you might finally back away, that you might leave, but you don’t and another customer steps in because of what you’ve done. I’m just trying to get you to leave. 

I’m not the one that hears you say you need to bring a gun into the store because there is as much distance as I can put between us already. 

But I’m the one that calls the police department. I’m the one in the back room with the coworker that defends me. If I look down, my hands will be shaking. My jaw aches from clenching it too tightly, for too long. 

I call the non-emergency number because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. This doesn't  _ happen  _ to me. I’m at work, this is a normal day, or it’s supposed to be. There’s the thought running on repeat:  _ what if I’m just overreacting?  _

I stutter on the line as I ask them to come as quickly as possible because there is a man in my store that has threatened to bring a gun into the store. I listen to the calm voice on the other end of the line start to work with me, to get all the information. I can hear the sound of her typing, and in the moment, I think of how maybe she’s looking at the same keyboard I am right now because I need to be anchored. 

My voice is a whisper despite knowing there are multiple walls between us. Dispatch listens to me as I say that I don’t know if you’ve gone outside to your car to get a gun, that I have no idea if you’re armed and I don’t say it, but I think this one thing. Over and over again.  _ Please. I don’t want to die.  _

I am 23, a month away from my next birthday, and now I don’t think I’ll live long enough to see it. I haven’t done the things I want to do. I haven’t gotten married. I haven’t had kids. I haven’t gone to college yet. And to be slammed with the thought that maybe I never will is a heady thing to have because there is no time to process it. It’s like knowing a loss is coming, but the loss is  _ you _ , and there’s not a chance to grieve as you pull yourself back together. 

But I did it anyway. I took a few seconds to take a deep breath, and tell myself that I am  _ terrified _ , but you won’t see it. I won’t let you. The voice on the other end says they’re on the way, and I stood on trembling legs. I walked onto the floor while your back was to me, knowing that help was coming, but not knowing what they would find. 

You don’t know a single thing about me, but if I don’t say this, I think I’ll never get it out there. 

Before the police get there, there’s a minute _ — _ maybe two _ — _ where I think I am going to die. I think that I should have called my boyfriend in the back because I love him so much and I need him saying it back to me to be the last thing I hear because maybe it will make it easier. I think that I should have stayed behind two locked doors, but I didn’t want to be a coward, and I didn’t want you to leave before they got there, even if I had no control of it. 

It’s so simple to say, but the words will never stretch the truth across. I think I’m going to die. I think of how I don’t want the last thing I ever see to be the colors of these walls. Standing in place with my knees locked while I pretend nothing is happening, I stare at a patch in the carpet because I hope _ — _ God, I  _ hope— _ it will be even quicker if I don’t see it coming. 

There are multiple police cars that pull in and then the sheriff’s department. When I finally see them on the other side of the glass, your back is turned and it’s the only mercy I’ve had because it gives time for these men and women to form a wall between me and you. It’s the first time I breathe without thinking it’s the last, but you have no idea what that feels like. 

You say,  _ “You called the cops?”  _

And I say that of course I did because you threatened me even though I don’t think I should. Thing is, you don’t get the right to stare at me like that, like I’m in the wrong and you’re the victim. I imagine if someone asks you about the arrest, you paint yourself as the victim and me as the villain. 

But that’s what all the villains do, isn’t it? 

It’s a whirl, the questions, the explanations, but then they hear your name, and the officer with me steps outside. I call my boss, explain the situation, and I’m in shock then. I’m laughing, making jokes, saying how it would have been terrible for this awful paint job to be the last thing I ever saw. The truth is that I was cracked down the middle, shaking and humor was the only way to stitch myself back together in order to survive. 

You’re dangerous is all I can hear when I learn there’s a warrant for your arrest for a violent assault that you committed only  _ hours  _ earlier. You’re a stalker. You’re so incredibly dangerous that I have put myself in danger by trying to protect myself from what I believed to be an angry customer. It sends me reeling. 

Then I joke with those officers. I say the joke about the awful paint job and everyone laughs.I say,  _ “I’ll be fucking damned if the last thing I see is this paint.” _ I think about that joke now and how it’s so obvious now what I was doing. 

The night of the day I think I’m going to die, I go to the grocery store. I’m searching for comfort food, and from the corner of my eye, I see a man. Then I see the gun on his hip. I wonder how many times I will break down today, if this is the last or only the beginning. This stranger listens to me because I’m sobbing, and I’m embarrassed to think of it even now, but he listens anyway. He apologizes even though it’s not his fault. 

When you’re released, I’m not in town. It’s not even a full week later that I could bump into you, and I’m still raw from it. I’m with my boyfriend and family. I’m trying to remember that I am alive, and how easy that can change. Depression crashes over my head, and even though it’s expected, it doesn’t make it any easier. My mother-in-law gives me my birthday present a month early because I’m so broken, because my boyfriend says I need it, and this is the birthday I didn’t think I would see. 

  
  


Three weeks later, they paint the walls. The store is due for a remodel, and the paint job is gone. They don’t look the same as they did that day, but of course I know exactly what they are. When I talk to the men painting, I tell them how glad I am to see it go, and you know what, I tell them why. They’re horrified and supportive and they’re kind when I can’t be. 

My grandpa comes to my work every day I close alone, and he has for years. This is why. My mom is scared this man will come back and so am I. It takes even longer for that fear to lessen. 

The truth is that I have never considered carrying a gun because of my past struggles with my mental health, but after that day, I think of it often. I remember how there’s not a single thing that could have stopped it, and how I would have bled out on the floor of a place I’ve worked in for nearly five years. 

Just like it was yesterday though, I remember staring down at the carpet while you’re laughing with your back to me, and curling my fists at my sides. I think they could rip the carpet up, and I might be able to pick out the square where I stood. 

Somehow, you’re not all I think about anymore. It’s not a daily thought of how horrible you must be to have the opportunity to forget, but I know you. 

You are a monster, encased in flesh and bone, and truly the only person I hate. 

I think about how I never want this to happen to anyone else. It would be easier to forget about the fears that follow me into any public place now, but I can’t let that go either. I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life yet, but I know that I want to volunteer in an organization that helps victims of gun violence. And as I do, I’ll hold my family close so they can light the way. 

And I’ll carry you with me too, gripped so tightly that you fear you might choke.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this, I want to thank you for letting me have a voice. Please don’t feel as though you have to comment, or leave kudos because of the nature of this. I did want to say a few things. 
> 
> Psychologically, I am obviously struggling with this, but truly I am safe. I am loved, and I am okay. I’m planning to make an appointment with my therapist in January, and start to unravel this. 
> 
> And I’m really grateful for the friends of mine that read this because I wanted to know if I was embarrassing myself. They’ll know exactly who they are, and also thank you to the person who inadvertently made me realize that this was a coping mechanism I’ve always had. 


End file.
